The Fob Watch
by Viva la Mmmkay
Summary: Eleanor is just a regular girl in London. She gets a job at the same place John Watson does. Soon enough, Nore meets Sherlock Holmes. When Eleanor finds a random fob watch on the streets of London, she acquires knowledge she does not comprehend. She's determined to find the owner of the fob watch, even if she has to travel through time and space to find him...
1. Chapter 1: Introductions and Intruders

It had been a long day for Eleanor Pennington.

Her schedule has been full since she walked into the surgery. After she seemed to have a break, another patient came in. Then another, and another, until she almost had no lunch break. Another doctor took one of her patients to give Eleanor her lunch break. His name is John. John Watson. Eleanor liked him. She didn't fancy him, but she liked John as one of her best friends. She's never had a friend as close as him. Eleanor was more reserved and shy, so she didn't have many friends at school or even now, for that matter. John had always been there for her more than she knew, and she knew she owed him for all those times.

Eleanor wasn't unsociable, though. She wasn't socially awkward, either. She was kind and loving and forgave easily. She didn't hold grudges for long, either. Whenever someone smiled at her, she was always inclined to smile back. Even though she smiled all the time, doesn't mean that she can't be mean. Eleanor can actually be pretty ferocious when she needed to, and controlled her emotions with extreme caution. Eleanor, I guess you could say, she was two-faced.

Thinking of herself reminded her of John and his friend, Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was his name. He was a genius and an idiot at the same time. John and Sherlock were like two halves to one whole. They were perfect for each other, and if Eleanor didn't know better, she would've thought they fancied each other. Of course, John had explained to her many times that he was not gay. Eleanor believed him, but she had to bite her tongue to keep herself from making a rude remark. John was her best friend and she didn't care if he was gay or not. In fact, she didn't care if anyone was different from her, as long as they respected her as a human being like she does for others.

After the long day at the surgery, Eleanor stopped by John's office to say goodbye. He was just packing up to leave as well. She leaned against the door frame to his office.

"Hey, John, I'm heading out," Eleanor said.

John looked up and smiled. "All right, Nore. I'll see you Monday for work again."

Eleanor turned to leave, but turned back again, forgetting something. John noticed and they stared at each other for a moment. John's eyebrows were raised while Nore's were knitted in thought.

Remembering, Eleanor opened her mouth to speak. Before she spoke, though, John looked at something behind Nore and frowned. She almost spoke, but the deep voice behind her made her freeze.

"John, are you off work now?"

Sherlock. Eleanor remembered that voice. How could she forget? That voice was so deep, it could cause an earthquake. She shut her mouth and refused to look behind her. She, instead, crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Eleanor could feel Sherlock's long, black coat brush up against her, and, judging from where his voice came from, his head was just behind her. His arm was above her shoulders, with his hand grasping the door frame. She was startled from the sudden appearance and jumped, no one seemed to notice, though. Well, Sherlock noticed, but he didn't say anything.

Nore's skin crawled. She hated Sherlock. Something about him irritated her and made her spine tingle and the hair on her neck stand on end. Eleanor hated to admit it, but she was scared of Mr. Holmes. He was conceited and mysterious and could tell you your whole life story at one glance. John had told Nore about it, but she had never been the victim. Sherlock didn't know why he didn't single her out, but she didn't want to find out. She was not in the mood to be tormented and judged. Eleanor just wanted to go home. She couldn't leave, though, because Sherlock's arm was right behind her, blocking her path.

John glanced from Nore to Sherlock. He knew she didn't like Sherlock. John didn't blame her, either. Sherlock was John's best friend, but he wasn't about to choose between the two friends. Eleanor waited not-so-patiently for John to respond to Mr. Holmes's question. There was an eerie silence among the three.

"Er, yeah," John finally said. "Yeah, I was just-"

"Good," Sherlock interrupted. "I need you on a case. Can't work on it right now. Far too busy to solve it; I'm working on my own case."

"What about the smuggler case we're working on? Isn't that more important?" John wondered.

"Not at the moment," Sherlock said. "No leads. Can't decipher the code. I need you to do a case while

"Great," John muttered, then denied the the case, and muttered under his breath about doing better things than to do Sherlock's dirty work. "Do you want to get take-out for dinner, Nore?"

Eleanor did _not _want to be next to Sherlock any longer. Take-out sounded great. Cooking dinner sounded too laboured at the moment. Take-out was fast and easy. Besides, Nore liked John. Take-out with him sounded great, and it may even turn into a date. Nore couldn't remember the last time she dated someone. Then Nore started to panic. She hadn't been on a date since she was at the university. That was years ago. She worried if she would be bad at it. She feared that she might make a fool of herself. But this is John. What could possibly go wrong?

Eleanor thanked John with her eyes. He pushed past her gently to join Sherlock and they walked side-by-side down the hallway and out the door. She sighed in relief. She was glad Mr. Holmes wasn't breathing down her neck any more. That was terrifying. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

She dragged herself out of the hospital and into a taxi to follow John and Sherlock. In minutes, they arrived at Baker Street.

"Just need to grab my wallet," John explained. "Hold the cab."

Eleanor just kind of stood awkwardly next to the cab as John ran into the flat. Just when Nore thought she could relax, Sherlock strode up and stood next to her. She looked the other way, trying to ignore the fact that he was going to make conversation. She sent off the cab even though John told her to hold it. She knew John too well to know that he would take a while.

"I have a feeling you don't fancy me," Sherlock blurted.

Nore laughed. Not because it was funny, but because the statement was so utterly true that it was hilarious and Sherlock just said it with a blatant tone of recognition.

"Yeah," Eleanor said. "I can't believe you just noticed that."

"I've observed it," Sherlock insisted. "I just haven't found the right time to have a proper chat with you."

Eleanor forced her gaze to look up into Sherlock's multi-coloured eyes. It was then that Nore realised how tall Sherlock really was. He was a lot taller than Eleanor's five feet eight inches. He looked about six feet tall. No, exactly six feet. His dark, curly hair sat on his head like a mop. His protruding, sharp cheekbones were very British. He was very, very slim, like he hadn't eaten in a few days. Which, he most likely hadn't, anyway.

"Well," Eleanor said. "Here we are. Proper chat."

"Proper chat," Sherlock agreed.

There was a very long, awkward silence.

"Are you and John on a...date?" Sherlock said the word _date _like it was foreign to him. "Are you two...?"

"No. No!" Nore said quickly. "No, we're just friends."

"Are you sure John knows that?"

Fear and guilt crowded Eleanor's heart. Did John know? She didn't want to crush the poor bloke's hopes and dreams. She liked John as a mate-nothing more, nothing less. If John fancied Nore, things could be...difficult. Eleanor didn't answer Sherlock.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "You don't know. That's new."

Eleanor suddenly felt angry, but didn't show it. She kept her voice from being ridged. "I'm not as observant as you. I don't judge people by what they look like."

"I'm not judging-"

"Yeah, you are."

Sherlock didn't answer. He pursed his lips, but Eleanor could tell that the gears in his head were working overtime, trying to process what she just said. Why would Sherlock take into account of something so insignificant as that? Most of all, why would he even listen to her? Maybe Sherlock was trying to make amends. But at the same time, he could be stuffing her like turkey dinner just to be sliced into little pieces when she's done baking. In other words, he could be pulling her leg instead of actually apologising and getting along. Eleanor shivered. Right now, Sherlock was a creep, and she didn't want anything to do with him.

"So," Eleanor changed the subject desperately. "The case you're working on; is it...difficult?"

"Er, yeah," he stuttered, pulling a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and unfolded it, revealing yellow spray-painted Asian characters that Nore didn't recognise. Next to the different letters were numbers written in pen with Sherlock's curly-cue handwriting.

"I can't figure it out, though," Sherlock said.

"Well, that's a first," Eleanor muttered. "But isn't every pair of numbers a word?"

Sherlock looked at Nore like she had green skin. "How did you know that?"

She rolled her eyes and pointed at the paper. "Look, Dumbo. The first two words are all ready translated. 'Nine mill'."

Sherlock looked like he was going to slap himself. He grabbed his hair in fistfuls like he was going to rip it out. "Stupid! I'm so stupid!"

"Finally!" Eleanor exclaimed. "You understand what you truly are!"

"But what book?" Sherlock asked, looking at Nore in thought. "'A book that everyone would own'?"

"The Bible," She guessed.

"No, all ready tried."

"Dictionary."

"No."

They stood there in silence for a moment, thinking. 'A book that everyone would own'... Eleanor was clueless. If it wasn't the Bible or the dictionary, she didn't know any other book.

Sherlock looked around, observing everything. Finally, his eyes grew wide and ran toward a French couple. He snatched the book that the man held and started flipping through it. It was the _London A to Z_ book. Nore rolled her eyes as the French people yelled at Sherlock in French. Eleanor, having studied abroad in France, understood the language and knew what the people were saying, and it wasn't very nice at all.

Eleanor ignored Sherlock and walked into his flat, looking for John. She'd been over a few times, so she knew her way. She walked up the stairs to 221B. She heard clanging in the kitchen when she opened the door.

"John?" she called.

No answer. Was John okay?

"John?" she asked more urgently, making her way to the kitchen.

Before she could turn the corner to look into the kitchen, a strong arm wrapped around her, preventing her from moving her arms. Eleanor struggled and squirmed against the restraints. She tried to call out, but before she could yell out anything, she felt something stab into her neck. As the liquid was injected into her blood, Eleanor grew weaker. Her vision became fuzzy, and there seemed to be two of everything. Her head felt like it was filled with helium. She thought her head would blow up into a balloon and float away. Her limbs went limp. She couldn't do anything. Eleanor collapsed into the attacker's arms and everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2: Troubles on Baker Street

Breath. Beating heart. Blurry vision. Dry, metallic taste. Burning throat. Dizzy head. Which way is up, then?

Those were the first thoughts that Eleanor thought of when she came to. At least she was alive. Unharmed? Hard to say. She couldn't feel her body. She slowly opened her eyes, still groggy from the drug she'd been injected with. Her vision was blurry, like having poor vision and not wearing eyeglasses. Looking around the room, she saw something wooden in front of her. She couldn't make out what it was, though. Next to the wooden thing was another person sitting in the chair.

Eleanor blinked hard, trying to clear her vision. It took a while, but the blurriness finally dissipated. It turns out the wooden thing was a crossbow, ready to fire an arrow. Eleanor did _not_ like it, because the pointy part was pointed directly at her.

John was in the chair next to the killing machine. He was out like a light, as well. He must've been administered drugs like Nore. Moving her gaze away from John, she examined the room. They weren't really in a room, necessarily. They were underground in the sewers. The brick and cement walls were moist and dripped water here and there. The droplets echoed throughout the chamber, giving the eerie silence some background noise.

She couldn't get away, either. Rope tied her down to the chair Nore was sitting in. Her wrists were tied together behind her back, while her ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. There was no escaping on Nore's part.

Nore brought her eyes back to look at John. "John!" She hissed. "John, wake up!"

There was a laughter somewhere behind her. It was a female's maniacal laugh, even more threatening than Nore's own evil cackle.

"Hello, Eleanor," the woman mused. "That is your name, is it not?"

Chinese accent. Older in years. Old, Asian woman, and she held John and Eleanor captive. With what? She had to have henchmen. There was no way, with her age, that she could carry John and Nore down to the sewer and not look like a kidnapper.

Eleanor didn't answer her, though. Nore didn't want to say anything until Sherlock got here. He could get them out of this mess. But did he even know where they were? He was outside when John and she were taken.

"Smart," the woman said. "You're waiting for Mr. Holmes to awake and for John Watson to arrive."

Mr. Holmes? Awake? Sherlock wasn't even here; John was. This lady had her men mixed up. Eleanor could use that to her advantage, though. If she thought John was Sherlock and Sherlock was John... This could get interesting. The lady walked up to Eleanor and stepped into Nore's view, right in front of her. She looked up at the Chinese woman. She wasn't traditionally dressed, which seemed like a stupid thing to think of because she usually saw Asian people wearing traditional clothing. That was also stupid. She didn't see very many Asian women.

"Well," Eleanor said, keeping her emotions in control, "John isn't exactly reliable, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope." She glanced at John. "And it doesn't look like Sherlock is waking up any time soon."

The lady scoffed. "You don't even have faith in your own companions."

John groaned. He's awake now. Well, that was fast. When he saw the scene laid out before him, Eleanor saw his eyes grow wide and his jaw dropped.

"Ah," the lady greeted, "Sherlock Holmes awakes."

"Sherlock Holmes?" John snickered. "Me? No, I'm not Sherlock."

Eleanor gave John the death glare. John just returned it, though. Nore tried to talk to him with her eyes, but he didn't get the message.

The Chinese woman pulled out John's wallet. "In here," she mused, "there is a debit card with the name Sherlock Holmes on it."

John nodded reluctantly and sighed. "He gave that to me for groceries."

"There is also a check written out to Mr. Holmes himself for three thousand pounds," she continued.

"Yes, because I was holding onto that for him," John tried.

But the lady didn't listen. "You are obviously Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I'm not!" John exclaimed.

"Don't give me your tricks, Mr. Holmes," the woman threatened. "I know your reputation. You won't fool me." The woman pulled out a knife from her robes. "You will give me the pin, or you will watch Eleanor die before your very eyes."

"What pin?" John asked. "I'm not Sherlock."

"No answer?" the woman stabbed the sandbag above her. The sand poured out of the burlap sack. The bag lowered with every grain of sand lost. Now Nore knew what would happen. The bag of sand would fall onto a pressure plate that was set up to the crossbow. Once that was set off, the arrow would fire, and, evidently, kill Eleanor if something didn't happen soon.

"The pin!" the lady demanded. "Where is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" John yelled. "What pin?"

"The jade pin! The one Van Coon stole from us! Where is it?"

"I don't know!" John said. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!"

The clock was ticking. The sandbag was getting closer and closer to the pressure plate as they spoke. Nore was getting anxious. She didn't have any idea what was going on. The lady wanted a jade pin, probably ancient, and John didn't have it. Nore wasn't prepared to die. Not now, at least. Not today.

"Eleanor's time is running out, Mr. Holmes," the woman mused. "Will you let her die, or give us the pin?"

"I'M NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES!" John yelled again. "I don't have your bloody pin!"

"John," Eleanor muttered, her voice shaky. She was staring at the sandbag.

John looked over at what Nore was staring at. He looked at the woman, pleadingly. "Please," John begged. "Just let Eleanor go. Leave her out of this. No one has to get hurt."

"Not until you give us the jade pin," the lady stated.

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes," John tried one last time.

"I don't believe you," the woman said.

Suddenly, a deep, earth-shaking voice rang through the chamber, "He's not Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock! Finally, he found out where they were. Eleanor didn't know what was happening, since it was all behind her and she couldn't exactly turn around. She could hear grunting, punches being thrown and colliding with skin and bone, and cries of pain. Eleanor felt Sherlock's fingers working furiously at the ties on her wrists for a brief moment, but it stopped.

"No, no! Sherlock!" Eleanor protested,_ really_ not wanting to die.

She didn't feel his hands again. Tears started to stream down her face. The sandbag was only centimetres away from setting off the crossbow. Eleanor became desperate. But what could she do? John noticed, too.

"No, Eleanor!" John yelled.

The sandbag hit the pressure plate, and the arrow fired.


	3. Chapter 3: The Blind Banker

When Eleanor was a child, she never wanted to be the trauma doctor that she ended up being. She wanted to be a secret services agent. Originally, her dream was to go the America to study to become an FBI agent. She didn't want to be an agent for the politics or debates, though. Nore wanted to be out on the battlefield, fighting crime and helping people. She wanted to experience the murders and the bodies. Yes, she was dealing with murders and bodies as a doctor. She helped people who were injured, but it wasn't the same. She didn't get the action or the crime-fighting ways of being an FBI agent. Eleanor wanted the action, the adrenaline, the rush.

But her parents wouldn't allow it. They wanted her to stay in London and take a safer career path. She became a doctor after that. Everyone thought Nore was the goody-two-shoes type of girl who always followed orders, when, actually, she's quite the contrary. Nore had always wanted to go her separate way, to disobey for once. She never did because she didn't want to lose trust in her close friends and family. Eleanor isn't a very social person, so all of her friends and family were close.

Now that she was with John and Sherlock-her dream of being out, rushing to save lives from murderers, feeling the adrenaline running through her veins-it was all she ever wanted. Not only did she feel excited about disobeying for once, but she also felt like this was the right thing to do. But now, she was reconsidering her dream. Eleanor had always wanted to know what it was like, you know, almost dying. Now that she was experiencing first hand, she just wanted to be back at the clinic, taking care of patients with their guts ripped out of their bodies. Much less life-threatening on her part.

Everything was in slow motion, it seemed. Eleanor could see everything play out before her like in an action movie with the slow motion fight scenes. John turned away so he couldn't see her die. Sherlock, behind her, was still fighting the woman's bodyguards. He could handle them, but how could Eleanor stop her death? She couldn't think of anything that could stop it. Maybe she could shift her body so the arrow didn't hurt her. If she just propped her shoulder up and arched her arm...

Perfect! Eleanor made her body curve at a weird position so the arrow dug into the back of the chair instead of her heart. But her calculations were a bit off. The tip of the arrow scraped her side, cutting deep into her skin between ribs nine and ten. Immediately, Nore knew that she would have to get stitches. She knew that from being a doctor, obviously. Crying out in pain, she was glad to be alive. Being injured is better that being dead.

Nore flinched and cringed at the pain, but she couldn't bring her hands to her wound to stop the bleeding. Breathing heavily through clenched teeth, she tried to endure the pain. John looked back. He knew that Eleanor would've died instantly on impact, if the arrow had impacted. He looked surprised by the fact that she was still alive. He sighed in relief, though.

Sherlock finished off the henchmen. The woman had fled the scene. There was no trace of her, so we couldn't follow her or track her down later.

"Sherlock, untie me first," John demanded in a very stern and worried tone.

The Consulting Detective did as he asked immediately, rushing to John's side. Sherlock, then tried to untie Eleanor next, but John pushed him out of the way.

"I'm the doctor, here," John pointed out. "I'll do it."

He knelt next to Eleanor and examined the damage. He, then, grasped the shaft of the arrow and put his hand below her wound.

Looking seriously at Nore, he said, "Now, Nore, this is going to be very painful. I need you to just breathe. Just breathe."

"Shouldn't we untie her first?" Sherlock asked.

"No," John answered. "She'll jerk and flail if we did. We'll untie her after." He made sure his grip was firm on the shaft and looked back at Eleanor's face. "Remember, just breathe."

Nore nodded knowingly, but also in terrified agreement. _Breathe, Nore. _She told herself, _It'll be over soon. Just breathe. _John was very gentle until he pulled the arrow out of the back of the chair and out of Eleanor's flesh. He yanked it out very coarsely, making her wound deeper and for more blood to pour out. Nore didn't blame him, though. The point was in the wood deep.

Eleanor did _not _do what John said to do. When John pulled out the arrow from her skin, she gasped in pain and held her breath. Black splotches appeared in her vision. She was losing too much blood. The scarlet liquid just kept gushing from the wound.

"Breathe, Nore," John repeated. "Sherlock, I need your scarf. Call and ambulance."

Sherlock willingly gave John his little blue scarf and pulled out his mobile.

"So much blood," Eleanor muttered, letting out her held breath. "Do you think I'll need a blood transfusion?"

John held the dripping scarf to Nore's wound, but the blood just kept coming. The blood wasn't clotting.

"Don't think about that," John told her. "It's fine. You're going to be all right. It's not fatal. It's going to be all right."

Eleanor smiled. "Sherlock wanted me to get along with him."

John chuckled. He glanced at Mr. Holmes, who was still on the phone. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Nore murmured, losing the sarcasm. "I'll try, John, but you know how much of a piss-off he is."

The smile faded from both of their faces. Sherlock came back and started untying Nore.

"The police will be here soon," he told them. "How's Eleanor?"

"She'll live," John explained. "But she needs medical attention. A few weeks of healing, and the only thing that will be left is a scar."

Then Nore added under her breath, "And bad memories."


	4. Chapter 4: Bro Talk and Learning Lessons

"John."

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure you don't fancy Eleanor?"

"No, I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I..."

"Hesitation means you have second thoughts."

"I don't have second thoughts!"

"So you fancy her?"

"I...don't know. Stop asking stupid questions!"

Sherlock was lying on the couch in his pyjamas and a long blue robe. His curly mop of hair was messier than usual. He had told John earlier that he was not on-call and that he wasn't taking any clients today. He was being a stubborn little brat that he usually was, but even more so now than usual. John wasn't sure if he fancied Nore or not. It was difficult to understand what he felt. John was being honest about not knowing, but he didn't know if Sherlock knew that. Of course he knew, though. Sherlock told John his whole life story in a taxi ride.

"I can only conclude that you fancy Eleanor," Sherlock told John.

John put his hands on his hips. Sherlock pointed out to him a while ago that John usually did that when he was frustrated. He stood in the middle of the room, glaring down at Sherlock.

"Think what you will, Sherlock," John said. "I just don't know. I know she doesn't like _you._"

"Blatantly," Sherlock said flatly. "She doesn't exactly fancy you, either."

"How do you know that?"

"She told me."

"And you were going to tell me this...when?"

"When it became relevant, as it just did."

"She told you she doesn't fancy me?" John asked, surprised.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "She said she 'only likes you as a friend.' She still values your friendship, apparently."

"Great," John muttered sarcasticly. "The 'Friend Zone' is an excellent place to start."

"Friend Zone?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"It's when a girl keeps you as a friend so she can't date you," John explained.

"I don't think she's _Friend Zoning_ you," Sherlock corrected. "She's socially awkward."

John shifted his feet. "Well, I knew _that_."

"John, she's only dated at least two other people in her entire life, and they were probably back when she was still in school."

"And?" John pursued.

Sherlock gave John the _I-am-so-disappointed-in-you _look. "She's nervous. Scared, even."

"So?" John was still lost. "What are you asking me to do?"

"This poor girl hasn't even had _sex_, John," Sherlock continued. "She's a good girl. Eleanor needs someone."

"Someone that's not me," John said.

"What? Why?" Sherlock asked, appalled.

"She's not...She's a good girl, yeah, but not for me."

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows and thought about it for a second. "Yeah, you're right."

"I'm-I'm what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knew John was just toying with him to get Sherlock to repeat what he just said.

"Well?" John said. "That was your cue. You were supposed to say 'Oh, right, maybe I should reach out to her.'"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"She loathes me."

"So convince her to stop."

"Even if I did, I'm not asking her out on a date or anything," Sherlock insisted.

"Why not?" John wondered.

"I'm married to my work! I have no time for..._love._" He spat out the word like it was poison. "And she's not my type, either. If anything, _you_ should go on a date with her."

"I think you're just being a baby," John said. "Why don't you go on a date? Just one? Please. For me."

"We are _not_ jumping to conclusions!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I don't go on _dates._"

"So maybe it's the perfect time to start," John said, taking out his phone. "I'll set it up. Dinner tonight._ And you are going. _No more of this 'married to your work' crap."

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "Fine. Where?"

"Marty's," John told Sherlock. "You'll get the meals free so you don't make a fool of yourself."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because the men usually pay for the date."

"Oh."

John shook his head and sighed. "You have a lot of learning to do."


End file.
